An Old Heartbreak
SYDNEY
The drive back to Maisie’s house is excruciating. Brooks grips the steering wheel like it might try to escape, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. Maisie sits in the front seat, occasionally sighing but otherwise silent. I stare out the window, watching familiar landmarks slide by—the Dickens Diner, King Bean coffee shop, the statue of the town founder, Denny Dickens, that local teenagers regularly dress in inappropriate accessories.
Maisie isn’t going to die. She no longer has cancer. It’s still sinking in. And if I wasn’t mad at her, I’d be jumping for joy.
My mind races, replaying not just this bombshell evening but my dinner with Jonah. His warnings about Brooks, about the foundation of our relationship being built on lies. I’d been ready to confront Brooks about whatever he was hiding, but now? Now we’re dealing with Maisie’s deception, and it feels like asking about his would pile on. Or maybe I’m just afraid of what I’ll learn. Maybe I’m not ready to lose the Brooks I’ve fallen for to whatever truth Jonah thinks will send me running.
As we pull into Maisie’s driveway, I realize I’m twisting the ring around my finger again, a nervous habit I’ve developed in the few hours I’ve worn it. It feels different now, knowing it was part of a grand scheme to push Brooks and me together. Not an accidental proposal at all, but a carefully planted prop in Maisie’s manipulation.
The house is dark when we enter, no welcoming porch light left on since the timer went off hours ago. Brooks flips on lamps as we move through the entryway, illuminating familiar spaces that suddenly feel alien. How many conversations have we had in this house that were built on Maisie’s lies? How many moments between Brooks and me were engineered by his grandmother’s deception?
Fifteen minutes later, we’ve settled into an uneasy silence in the living room. Maisie sits on her floral couch with Gus, smoothing her pantsuit with practiced dignity, as if we’re having a normal family discussion about weekend plans rather than unpacking a tower of lies.
“You know, Sydney,” she says, her voice softer than it’s been all evening, “I was in love with your grandfather. John and I were high school sweethearts and fought like tigers, but we never got together.”
I blink, caught completely off guard by this change of subject. My grandfather? The quiet, kind man who taught me to fish and always smelled like pipe tobacco and peppermints? The devoted husband of my grandmother for over forty years?
“He wanted me to marry him and leave with him for college, but I’d said no—that we’d marry after he graduated. I didn’t want to settle down so young. So we wrote to each other for a while,” Maisie continues, her eyes distant with memory. “But then he met your grandmother there. By the time he came home, they were engaged.” Her fingers trace a pattern on the couch fabric, following the faded floral design. “I always regretted turning down John’s proposal, and never got over him,” she says softly.
My voice catches in my throat when I finally find words. “I had no idea.”
“Nobody did. Not even Robert, Brooks’ grandfather. I loved him too, in a different way. But there’s something about your first love...” She trails off, then refocuses on me with surprising intensity. “When I saw how you and Brooks looked at each other, even when you were bickering, I recognized it. That fire. That connection. I told you it was what I had with Robert, but I lied. It was my relationship with John. I couldn’t bear to see you both miss your chance like I missed mine.”
The revelation lands like a physical weight on my chest. So Maisie wasn’t just extending her illness to manipulate her grandson into settling down, which I do understand given how worried she was about him. But this adds a new dimension I hadn’t considered—she was trying to prevent history from repeating itself. Trying to save us from her own regrets.
It doesn’t excuse what she did. But it helps me understand the desperation behind it.
Brooks hasn’t moved from his position leaning against the mantel, his expression unreadable in the shadows cast by the table lamp. But his voice, when he finally speaks, is tight with controlled emotion.
“We were worried sick about you,” he says, his words now filled with exhaustion instead of anger.
Maisie’s face falls again. “I’m sorry for that. Truly. But I’m not sorry about the outcome.” She gestures between Brooks and me, and I feel my cheeks heat despite the seriousness of the situation. “You found each other. No? Is it still fake?” Maisie’s eyes find mine. “That ring on your finger, Sydney. Are the feelings behind it fake? Because from where I’m sitting, what I see between you two is the most real thing in this room.”
The question hangs in the air, unanswered. Because how do I respond to that? Yes, my feelings for Brooks are real—terrifyingly, overwhelmingly real. But then there’s that secret still between us, and that makes me feel like I don’t know anything.
Maisie stands with surprising grace for a woman who’s spent hours in a jail cell, smoothing her rumpled pantsuit one last time. “I think I’ve caused enough drama for one day,” she says. “We can continue this conversation tomorrow, after we’ve all had some sleep.”
“Goodnight, Maisie. Talk to you tomorrow.” I give her a hug and Gus a pet, then I let out a breath, the wild ride of the past hours leaving me exhausted. My reporter’s brain is still trying to piece together all the new information—Maisie going to Pam’s gambling operation, her history with my grandfather. But my heart’s focused on only one thing: the man standing across the room, shadows playing across his face, secrets still hiding behind his eyes.
He pushes away from the mantel, running a hand through his hair. “What a night,” he says, the understatement of the century.
“That’s one way to put it.” I twist the ring on my finger again.
His eyes linger on my hand. “You could take it off,” he says quietly.
I stop mid-twist. “Is that what you want?”
“What I want...” He shakes his head, a humorless laugh escaping. “What I want is for one thing in my life to be simple.” His eyes find mine across the room, dark with emotion. “But nothing about us has been simple from the start, has it?”
“No,” I agree. “It hasn’t.” Even as kids, our relationship was complicated. Always tethered, but complicated.
He takes a deep breath. “We need to talk,” he says, nodding toward his bedroom down the hall.
Four simple words that sit heavy in the gut.
I should be terrified. Part of me is. But another part—the part that’s fallen for Brooks Kingston, fake relationship or not—is just relieved that the moment of truth has finally arrived. That is, after I tell him about LA. He has to know that before he decides whether or not to tell me. I couldn’t live with myself otherwise.
